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Ch. 5: The Tower of the Tree
(Return to Arheled) '' Golden blue. Could there be such a hue? Gold that mingled blue, yet never hinted green or lost its’ color? '' Lara Midwinter did not know, but it was all around her, a great mistiness of it in hills like vast waves made still, and beyond them a deep blue so dark and pure she could have gazed at it for an eternity. Or could have, if it were not for the voices that were speaking so close to her. She could not see who was speaking, for the curiously hued mist hid them, but she knew one of them at once, regal and somber and worried, yet somehow crystalline and eerie: the Lord Arcturus.'' '' '' “You know it is dim to think so, my lord Angar.” '' he was saying. “Those Doors cannot be found. You know what happened to the heavens when all the ways were bent. Not even the sight of the magias the peircers wrought, can penetrate that far.” '' There was a laugh, weird, cold and mirthless as frozen glass being crushed to powder, conveying only scorn. Then Angar spoke. Lara shriveled in on herself, ears shrinking, so utterly alien, so hostile to her earthmade nature and earthformed body was the hard and grinding voice of the Dark Star. The words wormed and wriggled down into her mind nevertheless. “''Play no darkness with me, Arcturus. Think thee that Chelendar’s comprehension was limited to himself? As I gazed upon that symbol when I was but a wheeling, the meaning was suddenly within my mind and I comprehended it, though it was not until I was full-shone and wise that the possibility occurred to me.” '' '' “That was a century and more ere Chelendar vanished!” '' '' “You sent Chelendar, did you not?” the biting dark voice mocked. “You sent him to open the Door of Night. Has he reached it, I wonder?” '' '' “You are incomprehendive, my lord Angar.” ''said Arcturus. '' “Never have so you been wont to speak. Ever your rays were bright with tales and the foment of recrimination, but now…I pierce a shadow in your heart. There is trouble in your shadows. Have a care, my lord.” '' Angar laughed that horrible laugh again. ''“My sister has delivered.” he said with a queer delight. “''I it is who am knowing the sire.”'' “If thou knowest,” said Arcturus harshly, “''then speak!” '' '' “Ah, art so sure of thyself, Arcturus? So certain, then, that thou canst exorcise the shadow that darkens the Choir? Have thy peircers reached the Doors of Night, and have the laid open the fearsome portals? Know they the secrets that can give thee power above the very Alaplondo themselves, or make thee glow brighter than the Sun and Moon? For I do.” '' Arcturus said nothing. '' “We will talk later.”'' said Angar abruptly. '' “The Road is keen and the King of the Road sees farther than either Sun or Moon. Even I cannot hope to live if he faces me with the Road underneath him. But rest assured, my lord Arcturus, that although I am but one Great Year old, none of the Seventy Thousand has the knowledge that I do.” '' '' “And what manner is your knowledge?” '' The voice of Angar lowered. “''The residue.”'' he murmered. '' “I feel it. I know how to tap it, to draw upon it. No other Star has such knowledge.”'' Suddenly he snarled. “We are being watched!” '' '' “I feel no eyes, nor drifting watchthought.” '' protested Arcturus. ''“The Road is walking time again, and bearing upon it the eyes that are watching. If It hears us, so does He.” '' There was a flash of brilliant blue and white, and two stars streaked off like meteorites into the heavens. And the golden blue mist began to churn, and slowly, with unbearable beauty and a heart-wringing chord, the stars began to sing. Lara grew colder and colder as the tingling sad singing of high keen sweet voices, a piercing freezing sweetness, washed over her, froze into her. '' '' ''I saw you in the heavens '' ''A little star '' ''But then you fell from heaven '' ''And I cannot see where you are. '' ''I saw a star fall from the sky '' ''As it’s sisters sang a lullaby '' ''But then their song turned to a cry '' ''For they cannot see where you are. '' ''Once you lit the heavens '' ''A little star '' ''But then you fell from heaven '' ''And I cannot see where you are. '' ''I saw a darkness in the sky '' ''Where once a little star fell to die '' ''And the stars do weep and ever cry, '' ''“Oh we cannot see where you are!” '' ''A star once shone in heaven '' ''A little star '' ''But now you’ve fled the heavens '' ''And I cannot see where you are. '' ''O little star, I hear your sighs '' ''I felt the tears you shed as you cry… '' She was leaving them behind, she was wheeling ever onwards as the Road spun her on, and stars and space about her spun as she slowly thawed, the frozen crystal music fading from her starstricken flesh. Memorial Day came with a thunderstorm that made it cool and gloomy under the trees. At first. By noon the sun was coming out and it was hot and stickyish; but the thin clouds that still filled the sky dampened his stare and it was actually quite nice. Ronnie Wendy biked up into Winsted and headed up toward the Beardsley Library. Camp Hill rose just behind it. He took Munro Place, which climbed up beside the library under quiet old maples, with broken concrete sidewalks and steady old townhouses. He crossed Hillside and began pumping the pedals harder, till he got off and walked. This corner of Winsted was too pretty to just rush through. Up steep winding lovely short streets he walked, houses tacked on in the oddest spots on ledges, half growing from the hill and half projecting outward. Lilacs, most of their blossom clusters fading to brown, stood among green maples and privet. An incredibly steep narrow lane plunged delightfully down to the left, trees and houses hanging close above it. He walked to the right up a curving road and came out on the top of Camp Hill. It was hot and sunny now, and the clouds were nearly gone. He was half minded to go swimming on the way home. Camp Hill’s summit was an open field, a low-swelling dome almost flat at the top, fringed by the tops of trees growing on the suddenly plunging rear slopes. Munro Place ended at a driveway farther on. A circular drive of rut-sunken asphalt ran around the hilltop at the trees’ edge. On the right was a down-sloping small meadow ending at the backyards of the houses along Hillside. On the left, uphill, a low border of huge sunken granite blocks ran wall-like parallel to the road. Each drive entrance was flanked by freestanding towers, 5 feet high, made of pink stone. On the hilltop stood Soldier’s Tower, a stair of moss-tarnished unpolished marble falling in several flights from its’ base to the arched and porticoed entry, a four-windowed structure with two broad doors, a dozen feet long. The tower itself, seen from close, was surprisingly small. Square, the sides slanting outward on the lowest storey like a tree base, it rose maybe fifty feet to a flat crenellated roof with old rails above the merlons. The right front corner upheld a small round turret, resting on a carved base projecting from the wall, capped with a round domed pedestal on which a green copper soldier stood, flagpole in hand and other hand on hip, staring in insolent repose. There were three levels. Ronnie left his bike and walked up to the tower. It was built of great square blocks of rough pink granite. Steps led up to a grey metal door, standing open. Two older men in red shirts greeted him as he walked up the steps. “That soldier,” muttered Ronnie as he pulled out his compass, “which way is he facing? And what is he guarding against?” The compass showed him facing exactly SW. Frowning, Ronnie headed inside. The first level was a square cement-lined chamber perhaps 12 feet by 12, a marble fireplace crusted by damp in the left rear corner. A wood stair, very plain and steep and grey-blue, climbed up in the near right corner. Three windows, one on each side, gave into the room, iron bars on the outside. In the rear wall to the right of the window was a huge cracked marble tablet, saying this tower was erected Sept. 11th 1890 to honor the Winsted men who fought in the Civil War. Not seeing anything significant, Ronnie mounted the narrow steep steps to the second level. There were more windows, two to a side, wood frames beginning to rot out set deep in recessed arches. Between the windows on long marble tablets were the names of forgotten soldiers, hundreds perhaps. Ronnie scanned every name carefully, but nothing leaped out at him, so he mounted to the third level. Here, due to the turret outside, the windows were smaller and narrower, two in the front side where the wall was short, three in the north and east walls, but two again behind the stairs. This room was bare grey cement, empty save for electric fixings. Another stair, steeper and more rickety, led on to the roof, and despite the “caution” tape tied across them, the trapdoor in the roof was open. Ronnie climbed swiftly up and out. A younger red-shirted man in a black cowboy hat warned him not to be seen from below—“liability issues”—but when Ronnie got to asking which way the soldier pointed, the man got curious too and let him check. The roof was black tar and surprisingly small. Above them the insolent soldier stood, gazing with careless triumph southwest. There stood the double swell of Case Mt and Pratt Hill, rising above all other summits. “Pratt Hill!” Ronnie exclaimed. “He’s looking at Pratt Hill!” Something was lying on the roof that had escaped his attention before. It was a key, old and tarnished and dull. Ronnie knew even as he picked it up that it would have a cloverleaf head with a border of connected beads in relief, and within that two dragonlike shapes around a worn center. The key to his old apartment in Pleasant Valley. He pocketed it with a grim expression and headed back down. The tower was actually becoming crowded. There were a couple of families with children, and some middle-aged women hunting for ancestors, and Travel Lane looking all around. Her ordinary face lit up when she saw him and she gave him a quick one-armed hug. “At least I showed up.” she said. “You find anything?” “The soldier is gazing SW straight at Pratt Hill.” he answered. “SW is in the direction the Civil War battlefields lie.” she said. “Maybe that’s why—“ “The rhyme said, The tower turret,'' remember?” Ronnie said. “And I found the key to my old apartment right underneath it, on the roof.” “The one your—landladies—said you had lost?” “They said I would find the key, and when I did I would know the answer.” Ronnie said in frustration. “And I’m as much in the dark as ever.” “But you do have the Sign of the 9th Hill.” Travel pointed out. Ronnie sighed. “Let’s go downstairs.” On the 2nd floor they saw to their surprise Bell, Brooke and Forest, who followed them downstairs, Brooke and Bell still chattering away and Forest being silent as usual. On the first floor Lara was signing the guest register and was quite delighted to see them. They talked animatedly for the next half hour as they exchanged news and were brought up to date on things and looked around the tower. “It is good to see the Children of the Road in such a merry mood.” Arheled had arrived unseen, as he always did. He stood leaning against the sloping base of the tower’s south face, just underneath the projecting turret. He was not alone. With him stood the Wild Man, his great ragged cloak gone for today and his long tangled hair in some semblance of order, and his beard was short as well. Arheled wore a shirt of thin green-red flannel as well as his usual battered brown corduroy, and with his youngish beard-stubbled face and old-man cap—the sort with a small brim in front—he looked like a slightly disreputable construction worker. An awkward silence fell over them instantly. Wild gave Brooke a broad wink and she pulled her hair over her face, suddenly red as a beet. The others could have sworn they heard her giggling. Then Ronnie stepped forward, under what impulse he did not know, and bowed deeply. “My lord Arheled, I have the key.” he said. “That is well, Ronmond, even if that was the doing of another. Keep the Key always by you. Why the Weird Sisters have chosen to aid us with such a thing I do not understand; but I smell no harm in it, and aid is welcome.” “I still say we destroy the thing.” growled Wild. “Yes, well, that is not your decision.” replied Arheled. “In any case there are more pressing matters. Have you found the Signs of the Nine Hills of Winsted?” “We have them, Arheled.” said Ronnie. “Tell me, then, the Signs of the Hills.” Ronnie looked to be visibly tensing himself. In terse words he told Arheled the strange and seemingly random yet strangely significant little things they had discovered as the Signs, including his own deductions concerning the Star Murzim and the map and the date July 25th. “You have fulfilled the Quest.” said Arheled. “I did not set it to those of past callings, for many of them had not yet been planted, and for those that were the time had not yet arrived for their fulfillment. The Grapevine signifies the burial site of the vanished Cannon. The date July 25th is important; you guessed rightly. But the map upon the Jumbo is of the roads that were made by no mortal being’s hand, some of which were after followed by human roads.” “Who built the tower on Pratt Hill?” Ronnie asked. “And who made these Lost Roads?” “Who do you think, boy?” snorted the Wild Man of Winsted. “The Stars made them, of course.” “Not entirely.” said Arheled. “Their roads did not run along the ground. Their highways were of other nature. Nor did Stars make the great Tower of the Tree, once like a living fountain of stone, now reduced to a few scattered rocks.” “I’ve never seen it.” said Wild enviously. “It was down already by the time the Road spun me forth.” “Why, didn’t I send you a dream of it?” said Arheled. “Ah, dreams, my lord, are never memories. And then that Ice showed up, and it was all I could do to keep it lubricated so it wouldn’t grind the Fell off the planet. Have you ever tried to grease a glacier every day for thousands of years?” “I thought you said you were ice.” Ronnie said. “Couldn’t you become the ice and split it?” “Not with the power that was calling it, no.” snorted Wild. “I am of one power; but there are powers other than mine.” “Those tales do not enter this one.” said Arheled. “This tale is of the Great Disaster. And some of what is emerging is a surprise even to me.” “I had a dream of the threefold binding of Chaos.” said Forest. “Was that from you?” “I am not divine.” replied Arheled. “Although my knowledge is great, there are many things I do not know. And what I do not know is sometimes told to me.” “Then what was the Tower of the Tree?” Ronnie asked. “Tall as the hill she stood on, white as the gleam of snow, with the polish on her granite so bright she shone like a tree made of fire when the Sun caught her sides.” Arheled murmered, as one lost in old memories. “She had four leaping roots and a single rising stem, and at the top great ribs of wrought stone and crystal spread out like the branches of trees, and they were carved as trees too, aye well. And upon her crown a great globe of gleaming glass, and he that stood underneath and gazed up into it could see the farthest Stars of the forgotten world as it was in those times.” He fell still, and his ancient eyes burned a sad and somber gold. “What broke her?” murmered Lara. “And who built her?” “Mem built her, and Men broke her.” Arheled made answer. His eyebrows tightened into a knot. “Men of old came here after the bending of the ways, and with the sadness of their loss they sought up every stream to see if Atlantis was there, if in the bending of the world it had not been cast down for ever, and they might find the heaven-pillar still aloft, inviolate. And with my aid they built a place to watch and guard, and look upon the heavens that had swallowed Aelvenhome.” His voice tightened. “Then others came.” “What others?” Brooke whispered. The Wild Man was watching her somberly. “What others could have broken her?” “''Dúmenoría.” Arheled replied. ''“Morkûlo, the Hated Ones. With their craft and their skill they were already fell in power, but that was not enough. Cast out of the Valley of the Moon, denied the Great River, they retreated back for a time and brooded darkly in their bitter temples, black and gold and red. Then they called upon their dreadful magic and invoked the ancient gods whose names are quite enough to blast whatever ear should be unlucky enough to overhear them, and they reached into the sky upon Middlesummer Day when the Stars are wont to celebrate, and they seized and drew to earth one of the very Stars themselves.” He fell silent. “All is dark to me.” Lara heard herself say. “Pity those who have to look inside that darkness.” said Arheled. “Pity those whose task is to behold the unbeholdable. Suffice it to say that by means of this deed the Morkû, the Dúminoríans, brought into being that talisman most vile and that gem most abominable, the Stone of Death.” None of the Six seemed aware of the trees or the tower nearby. Despite the warm humidity they felt cold. “It had the power to command the earth and stone, the plants and airs and weathers; metal and fire, water and heat were under its’ command, and to the one that held it were granted hearing and knowledge, sight and wisdom nigh as great as the very Gods themselves; and great powers of thought were in it. And their Wizard led an army of Morkû up the Cloven River, which ye call Naugatuck; yet in those days before the Grinding Ice it was far narrower and sharper, cascading through the cracks in the upland which the ancient wars had caused. And they came upon the men of the Tower and gave battle to them, but the breaking of their Tower had broken their spirit along with their power, and they were besides far less; and they were utterly destroyed. And the Morkû came against the North, and it was then that the Road wrought into being the Wild Man of Winsted; and he drove them back.” “But—you said the tower was already broken.” protested Bell. “What broke it?” “Magic broke it.” replied Arheled. “Tell me, Bell, where does the Methodist church point?” “You said it was a quest for warmer times.” “It points to the Waymeet of the Three Haunts, which are the Battle Mound and the Green Lady, and one other. That is your next quest. Seek out the Blue Skull near the pit of countless cans. Find out the side of the woman in green.” “You can wake up now.” the Wild Man said with a sour grin. The Six started, blinking a little as they looked around. “I guess you guys are leaving, then?” Brooke said wistfully. “Won’t you have a picnic? We all brought stuff for a cookout, and then we’ll hit the beach.” Wild looked at Arheled, and Arheled looked at Wild. “Can I go out and play, nice master?” Wild asked him sardonically. “Do you want me to tell her how many girls you’ve already wooed this past weekend alone?” Arheled answered dryly. “Well, the beaches are full.” defended Wild. “And the nightclubs.” sighed Arheled. “And the bars. It’s not as if you’re pining away for loneliness. Do remember that a girl in these evil times is quite likely to visit the Torrington Planned Parenthood HQ rather than keep the children you have given her.” “That’s why Winsted is so full of eccentrics, in case you’re wondering.” Wild said in an aside to the others. He tapped his chest. “You’re disgusting.” said Lara. “He’s earthy.” shrugged Arheled. “Very well. We will linger—and Wild, do not woo the Children of the Road. For once in your life try to remember your manners.” “Oh well, it’ll be good practice in case I have to try blending in with humans.” grinned the Wild Man. “Remember the first time I tried, how they say it, ‘hanging out’, with those two drunk carloads of whippersnappers what were whooping it up right under Temple Fell, beside the Red Lake? I didn’t say two words before they howled off, screaming about 7-foot monsters with gleaming eyes. That was in the 70s, though. I’m better at it now.” “Yes, but you still need to learn casual conversation.” Arheled said wearily. “Casual.” sneered Wild. “To chit-pick at meaningless words and empty thoughts. Ugh. When I talk, I would rather talk of important things; and when I woo, to dance through the empty pleasantries beforehand tires me.” “Well, get in some practice, then.” said Arheled. “Yes, Master, nice master.” said Wild in mock subservience. The others all laughed. They unpacked a hibachi from Brooke’s trunk and Arheled made burgers and hot dogs while Wild sat next to Brooke and listened to the animated chatter of the six children. Well, to five, actually; Forest was as quiet as a camera, watching everything with his thoughtful strange eyes and sometimes smiling. Someone had got Lara going on Chesterton, and Brooke was chattering with Bell and Travel while Ronnie talked to everyone at once. Now and again Wild would make a rough remark, but on the whole he fit rather well, like an eccentric redneck uncle at a family picnic. Brooke began trying to draw him into the conversation but the Wild Man stuck to comments, and then began complimenting Brooke’s anatomy in an undertone in her ear, which reduced her to a continuous state of blushing giggles. Arheled’s hamburgers, though Brooke had bought them herself at Aldi’s, were like nothing the others had tasted before, save perhaps in some restaurant which used the choicest cuts of beef. Rich and meaty, with a flavor of such quality as to rival steak, the juicy yet brown-cooked meat like cheese to their teeth, they couldn’t get enough of it. The pickles and onions and cheese and mustard only garnished the delicious burgers. He had wrought a similar transformation with the hot dogs. “What did you do to these things?!” “Gmmmmm, oh, this is so good!” “Wow, this is the best meat I’ve ever had!” they were all exclaiming at once. “I merely enhanced what was there and banished the impure compositions.” said Arheled, a bemused yet tender smile on his face as he served up the last hot dogs. He watched them devouring in ecstasy, and looked over at the Wild Man and smiled. “Are not humans wonderful little things, Wild? It takes so little to please them and make them happy; a smile, a taste, a touch; before they return once again to take up the burden of the sorrow that is laid on them for doom and help in one. So weak and small, and so unutterably strong.” And the Wild Man nodded. Only Forest seemed to have heard this exchange, sitting on the outskirts and taking everything in; but his eyes grew huge and thoughtful and he stared into nothing for a long while. After they had all roasted marshmallows and Arheled had produced some of the most excellent chocolate for “s’mores” that any of them could remember, they piled into their cars and headed for the beach. Arheled and Wild waved goodbye from the hilltop, and were gone even as the waving children turned away. The next few days were so warm and muggy and lovely it was perfect summer weather. Brooke called in sick on one such day, it was so soft and marvelous. She drove down Boyd Street, the woods on her left hazy and dim and greeny-blue, the damply hot sun delicious on her skin with promise of fun. W. Lake St branched off on the right as she rounded the big curve just before Winsted, and this led her down to the junction with the western shore road. The boat launch filled a curving bay in the shore walled by stone jettys, a few trees left from the lake park of long ago. She turned right and pulled into the little parking lot at the corner, where the shore road made a sudden right elbow along the beach before curving back south on its’ way down the lake. Across the street from the lot was a narrow strip of sand between pavement and water, with two empty lifeguard chairs and no buoys out in the lake; and that was Holland Beach. It was a fresh, pleasant, breezy sort of place, and the air was so warm Brooke felt like dancing when she got out of her car. Already in her suit, she only needed to drop her beach bag randomly on the sand, kick off her flip-flops and charge headlong into the water with a squeal of glee. She wore a black and dark-green two-piece today: there might be boys, after all, and she wanted to look attractive. The water was gorgeous, silky warm-cool and opaque with yellow silt from all the little kids and teens kicking it up. She recognized the Library Gang and swam over to exchange sopping-wet hugs with Julian and Delilah and get splashed by Greg and Martin. Deli was in a really slutty suit with a top which barely contained her big, bouncy breasts, and she was acting sassy and brassy as usual. But the guys seemed to love it. She’d cut her hair short and dyed it brunette, which suited her plump voluptuous figure well enough, but Brooke didn’t like it. Then Martin was manhandling Deli while Julian mocked him and Brooke swam off to see who else was here, and almost collided with Ronnie Wendy. She clapped her hands and squealed with delight. She and Ronnie got into a splash war and then she made him try to flip her off his shoulders, except that he had such tough bony shoulders she slipped every time. But she really enjoyed herself with her friend of the Road, and when Bell came it was just icing on the cake. Being a guy, Ronnie started shaking after only an hour or so in the water and had to go ashore and warm up, holding that big towel of his by the corners, thrown over his back, so that the wind flapped it like a cloak. Bell spotted Mindy, a lively little girl of her own age, and the two of them were oblivious of anyone else for a while. Brooke suddenly felt two strong smooth hands seize her by the waist and hoist her bodily out of the water, and then she was being soused repeatedly in the arms of a strange man. In the thrill of being continuously ducked in warm water Brooke really didn’t care who was doing it, although Martin wasn’t this strong and any other guys were way off down the beach. Her ducker soused her one final time, then heaved her up and hurled her completely out of the water. She sailed almost seven feet before plunging into the deep water beyond where she’d been—the beach sloped quickly into the deep area. It wasn’t till she’d surfaced, almost delirious with fun, that she saw her new partner was the Wild Man of Winsted. He looked different without his beard and with his long hair matted and streaming, but she knew those rough craggy features and those mocking, nonhuman eyes. She laughed even harder with delight. “How did you like that?” he grinned. “Awesome! Whee! Do that to me again! Oh my goodness! That was fun!” He took her at her word and she was literally swept breathless as the strange being threw her around like a football and ducked her till she was half insane with the exhilaration. Then he had his great arms about her, his hands feeling up her, the touch sending waves of bliss into her so that she gasped, and her gasps swallowed by his kisses. “By Arheled, stop it!” she gasped. His arms fell still, but she could feel his hands in places she should never allow anyone to touch. Her breath came with difficulty. Why not, after all? Why not let him do as he would with her? “Please,” she whispered, “let go of me. Don’t woo me.” His touch withdrew from her flesh, and she missed it so badly she wanted to cry. “As you wish. You are nearly under my power, pretty maiden. But no matter. There are other ripe lovely dirlas '' to be caressed; plump Deli, there, has been in my arms three times already.” Jealousy coursed through her in a roar of emotion. “How ''dare '' you! How dare you go straight out of my arms to woo that little witch! I’ve a good mind to order you to jump off a cliff!” “Beware, little Streamgirl, what you order the Wild Man of Winsted to do,” the rough voice hissed, and such sudden hatred and implacable fury raged in his eyes that Brooke’s jealousy withered like a twig in a fire as she splashed backward several feet. “Wild,” she said in a timid voice, “Arheled said no.” The fury went out like a switch. “If you resist because you have the prohibition of the Warden himself, then I will not woo you further.” “Thank you, Wild Man.” She said shyly. “I don’t mind being played with, but you may not grope or take me.” The Wild Man of Winsted smiled. There was something dangerous in that smile, like the grin of a tiger, but the danger was muted and turned away. “To play without wooing—that will be a strange thing indeed. But I will play a little longer, and then I will woo the baby witch. You cannot have it both ways, Streamgirl.” Brooke threw back her head and laughed with sheer delight as she felt his powerful hands grip her waist and heave her up, and then he was sousing her again, and she enjoyed herself so much as he horsed her around that she felt only a kind merriment when she saw him turning his rough attentions onto Delilah. Ronnie, Bell and Mindy coming over at the same time, she took Mindy on her shoulders while Bell sat on Ronnie’s and they played chicken fights. She wasn’t surprised to see both Julian, Delilah and the Wild Man were gone. Then Bell unseated Mindy due to Ronnie being about as easy to knock off balance as a stone, and they found a flat slab of loose rock and played “anchor” with it—holding it in their arms while swimming forward, the rock steadily sinking you. Brooke found a large rock and of course Ronnie had to show off and lift it up. When he dropped it she ''felt ''the thud in the water, even though not touching the bottom at the time. The warm humid night air made it so stuffy Forest had to leave the fan on before he could fall asleep. The warmth made it difficult to drop off. Now and then he became conscious of whirling blades and a low hum, and then sleep drifted lightly in on him again. The hum was rising now, wavering and growing strange and silvery; and cold, cold yet lively and aware with a kind of crystalline curious sadness, for it was the singing of the stars. ''I saw you in the heavens '' ''A little star '' ''But then you fell from heaven… '' Forms so beautiful and shapely as to tear his heart in two were swirling slowly around him, moving on the air as to the steps of unseen dancing, and keen and sad and tingling their silver voices rang. A streak of white fire shot past them, shot downward, lighting up a furry rolling blanket of deepest greeny-black: a great highland, deeply grooved and fissured by the convulsion that had thrust it up and gnawed downward by the ceaseless streams, tree-covered hills, and up from one of them rose a tower like a glowing tree itself. '' …and we cannot see where you are. '' A flash leaped up from the trees, and there was a dull boom. And darkness closed over the hills again, darkness and the branches of trees. Still far in the background and high above the world Forest heard the silver singing of the searching stars above, bending and peering at the world beneath; but the trees shut out with their branches the vision of the Stars. Round about and overhead the ancient branches closed, until neither gleam nor patch of the dome of the heavens could be made out through the leaves. He saw nearby the huge stems of the giant wardens of the earth, growing tall as cliffs and thick as clouds; yet a faint grey twilight filled the spaces of the black boles. The cause of this lay at his feet, a discovery which made him reel backwards a few steps. There, gleaming faintly still, a luminous crater had been smashed out of the forest floor, earth and broken rocks a faintly glowing grey-silver. Off in the forest a luminous shape was walking, hesitant, unlit by anything save itself. He followed her, himself unmoving, gliding in her wake as she wended her way through the strange tangled forest; for the figure was female, a dress of tattered white drifting around a body of pleasing but peculiar shape, and her hair gleamed white and platinum upon her angled shoulders. She was confused, bewildered amid the grim silence of the trees; for they were hostile, and though they feared the power she wielded enough to leave her untouched, their cold earthen wills cast a gloom upon the forest that no Star could illumine. Although in the heavens they had the power of gods, there was a power in the earth and the trees of the earth that cast the Stars in a fog if they came under the trees. ''I saw a star fall from the sky '' ''As it’s sisters sang a lullaby '' ''But then their song turned to a cry '' ''For they cannot see where you are. '' How long the Star stumbled on underneath the trees Forest did not know; but he became aware that the gloom was full of shifting shapes, slinking shadows round and round them, growing closer on all sides. A queer rounded boulder rose up from a glade, like a skull sunk in the earth, a dent for the nosehole and a dent for one eye. The Star stopped beside it, nearly touching it, for she too could see the moving forms that barred her way and hemmed her round, dancing figures, skirted men in knee-length robes that flapped as they leaped. Silently the dancing men moved round and round, and some of them had hair that gleamed faint silver in the dark, and at every turn they drew closer, leaping, weaving closeknit steps. A few of them gave Forest—or the place where he stood—a wary glance, as if they felt his reaching eyes down all the ages that had been, but then passed on. Something about the way in which they moved, the hideous sinuosity of limb and wand, the strange and yet obscene movements of their circling hands, struck into Forest a deathly chill, a sense of evil he knew nothing about yet could almost grasp and feared to grasp, lest suddenly he should comprehend the sweeping signs and fall blasted by the knowledge. In deathly silence though they danced, still overhead beyond the wood the stars sang on. ''Once you lit the heavens '' ''A little star '' ''But then you fell from heaven '' ''And we cannot see where you are. '' She shrank closer and closer to the blue skull-like rock, white light glowing from her hands and flickering, expiring before it could take form. She had a lovely, luminous white face, but it was young, like that of a human girl of twelve, and fear was wavering through it, for the dancing of the Morku was holding down her power and her strength was sliding away. She reeled and fell, sprawled in unbearable beauty and pathos across the eyeless skull, and the dark men closed around. ''I saw a darkness in the sky '' ''Where once a little star fell to die '' ''And the stars do weep and ever cry, '' ''“Oh we cannot see where you are!” '' Up through leaf and shadowed bough the sight of Forest sprang, and there above the trees there was light, the deep twilight of the ancient Stars from before the rending of the heavens; and it shone upon a broad lake, and above the lake a high and treeless hill. And that hill was a bright and gleaming green despite the lateness of the night, for it was lit by the glow of the Tower of the Tree. Upon the top of the hill sparkled palaces of stone, and out of them rose like roots of marble the four arched pylons and high square base of the Tower itself. At a great height the curving trunks of stone met and meshed together like the bole of a tree, upholding a slender stem as high as the hill below it. Near the crown great ribs of white stone and crystal wrought like reaching branches opened out on every side, and upon them were held railed platforms and stairways, and kerb and step were clearest rock crystal. And at the top all stairways bent in and met the tapering stem of the Tower in an arched net of glass and crystal upheld on meeting beams of white stone, and under that net lay a globe of glass. Except it was not glass. Forest knew that at once. It was utterly transparent, so much so that only by its’ facets and the dew upon it was he able to see it at all. For it was carved of '' arheled from the Ilurambar themselves, unbreakable by any violence, potent with power. And as he watched he saw men emerge, tiny as ants, underneath the mighty globe as huge as three men; and with them was a bound and gleaming shape. ''A star once shone in heaven '' ''A little star '' ''But now you’ve fled the heavens '' ''And I cannot see where you are. '' What they did on the tower as the night filed past, he could not see, nor wanted to see. He saw the white-armoured Men of the Tower patrolling back and forth, their siege engines silent and ready, the dreadful devices built in Sauron’s teaching that could hurl darts like thunder standing loaded and ready, their tubes of black metal poised. All unaware of the doom that was on them. All unaware that their ranks were no more pure, and above them their enemy wrought out their own defeat. For up from the Tower suddenly blazed a coruscating whip of light. The Tower crumpled, folding inward, arms dropping, walls dimming, polish charring and exploding; a whirlwind funneling inward upon the middle of the summit; and then suddewnly there was a crash like thunder, and flame spouted from the hill, and stones hurtled out of the smoke to smite the forest like bombs and pepper the Long Lake’s surface. But the globe shrank, releasing a rotating beam of energy as it buckled to the tremendous power that was acting upon it. There was a flare of blinding white. In the hand of the only living being to survive the breaking of the Tower, the one who by evil design had so engineered it that he uttered the spell’s last word, lay a jewel so black light simply ended at that point. And the name of that stone was Death. ''Oh little star, I hear your sighs '' ''I felt the tears you shed as you cry '' He was alone, no other remained of all those magicians and all the Men of the Tower; body and soul they were bound in that gem to be fuel and the source of it’s terrible power; and he lifted a twisted staff of oak, and in the great knotted burl at the tip he set the Stone. Slowly the singing of the Stars faded into the deepness of heaven, and Forest was conscious only of a great sadness. And then sleep overcame him as the Road let him go, and dreams whirled him on.